


Indecent Exposure

by Outis_of_the_Cave



Category: The Terror (TV 2018) RPF, The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Blasphemy, Disasters, Icky, M/M, Nude Modeling, Plot Twists, Public Nudity, Sexual Fantasy, The College AU to end all College AU's, panic in the art room!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-01-31 21:41:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18599953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Outis_of_the_Cave/pseuds/Outis_of_the_Cave
Summary: The syllabus didn't mention anything about this... An ordinary class is anything but...





	1. Chapter 1

ART, n. This word has no definition. Its origin is related as follows by the ingenious Father Gassalasca Jape, S.J.

_ One day a wag—what would the wretch be at?— _

_  Shifted a letter of the cipher RAT, _

_  And said it was a god's name!  Straight arose _

_  Fantastic priests and postulants (with shows, _

_  And mysteries, and mummeries, and hymns, _

_  And disputations dire that lamed their limbs) _

_  To serve his temple and maintain the fires, _

_  Expound the law, manipulate the wires. _

_  Amazed, the populace that rites attend, _

_  Believe whate'er they cannot comprehend, _

_  And, inly edified to learn that two _

_  Half-hairs joined so and so (as Art can do) _

_  Have sweeter values and a grace more fit _

_  Than Nature's hairs that never have been split, _

_  Bring cates and wines for sacrificial feasts, _

_ And sell their garments to support the priests. _

_ From “The Devil’s Dictionary”, by Ambrose Bierce  _

***

It was in times like these when Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier seriously considered taking up the bottle once more.

The email from Mr. Diggle was still open on his laptop which lay on a desk that was definitely not his. In a few poorly worded sentences, the campus cook made it clear that, while he was very sorry about getting in touch on such short notice, there was no way he would be able to model for the  _ Introduction to Human Anatomy as an Art Form _ class today. There was just no way, he stated adamantly, that he’d be able to do all the proper poses; not after getting his foot stuck in a bucket left behind by a careless custodian, then falling backwards and sending up a mushy parabola of mashed potatoes he’d been carrying and a cascade of dirty water all over the hallway. Diggle, who had offered his services as a nude model for the young students with disturbing regularity, could not do it today. McDonald said he had a sprained ankle and that he needed to stay in the infirmary, and besides, his required confidence was completely shot. 

Crozier sighed and slumped in his, no,  _ her  _ chair. Dr. Crozier was supposed to be teaching early-nineteenth century maritime history, and he would much rather be working on his essay about the relationship between Quakerism and the Nantucket whale trade, but Ms. Cracroft had insisted on him being her substitute for today, and how could he say no? He had been trying to let go of her as of late, but all it took was one wink, one little smile, and he was hooked. 

He buried his face in his hands.

How the hell was he supposed to find a model on such short notice? Thomas Jopson, his teaching assistant, would no doubt volunteer, but the poor lad was busy looking after his ailing mother. Crozier grunted and got to his feet; he crossed the room, ignoring the abstract paintings and vague figurines, and looked out across the courtyard from the second floor of the Fine Arts building. The grounds outside were tastefully landscaped and designed: gravel paths criss-crossed lush gardens filled with bright hyacinths peeking out of blooming rhododendrons, painting the open space in pink, purple, and white hues. This natural beauty, so incongruous with the inner turmoil raging inside himself, served to elevate this scenic view to a breathtaking loveliness. It always amazed him how everything in the world always appeared to be all the more prettier whenever his own inner one would slide into disorder and despair. Life, as his friend Blanky was fond of saying, really did have a sense of humor. Crozier found it within himself to manage a small, rueful grin. 

Among the clusters of students crunching up and down the pathways, he spotted an unmistakable shape: James Fitzjames, a professor specializing in International Relations, was making his way past the building. The grin spread into a nasty smile.  _ When life gives you lemons _ , he thought, and moved to intercept. He jogged down the stairs, huffed and puffed down the stairs, and caught him right outside the frosted glass doors. 

“James,” he rasped, struggling to catch his breath.

Fitzjames took his time looking his colleague up and down while he composed himself. “Francis,” he said cooly, not sounding very impressed. Fitzjames was dressed casually this afternoon; casual for him being fawn loafers crafted from the finest leathers, dove-grey slacks tastefully fitting his waist with help from a glossy black belt with a silver belt-buckle, and all of this topped by a powder-white shirt with thin, light blue stripes and pearl buttons. Crozier felt shabby in comparison, and Fitzjames wasn’t even trying! This was a man who wore a three-piece suit to an ice cream social, for Christ’s sake...   


“Good to see you, James,” Crozier said, suddenly conscious of his flushed face and frayed sweater, “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“Likewise.”

“I’ve got to be honest with you, I’m not really here to say hi.”   

“Well,” he snorted, “I can see that.”

“I’m buried myself in a hole, James,” Crozier said earnestly, “and if I don’t find a solution soon it’ll turn into a grave. My art class—hers, Sophia’s actually, I’m just a substitute as you’ve probably guessed—needs a model, and…”

Fitzjames’ face wasn’t so much embarrassed as it was incredulous. He cocked an eyebrow. 

“And...well...you’re always praising aesthetics and talking about being fashionable. If you weren’t busy-”

“Francis Crozier,” he cut him off, “let’s make two things clear between us. While I am flattered—a bit shocked too, but mostly flattered—by your decidedly  _ immodest _ proposal, I believe that you’ve misjudged me. Just because I like to show off my clothes doesn’t mean I have the slightest desire to show off my...private assets to yours or hers students, and even if I wanted to, I’m busy! The estimable John Barrows, president of this university, will be conducting a tour of this campus and he needs a guide.”

“And what better guide than you,” Crozier remarked, failing to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

“Exactly. I’m on my way to meet him and I shan’t be late. If you can’t find a model, then have your students draw, I don’t know, one of those toy boats you have lying around in your own office.”

“Their models, James!”

“Right, well then. I best be on my way. Good luck with your endeavors.”

James Fitzjames departed, moving at a brisk pace and nodding at a few students and faculty members he was friendly with.

“Bitch,” Crozier muttered and went on up to to his temporary office.

No sooner had he sat down than he heard a tentative rapping on the door.

“Come in!” Crozier growled. 

The door parted slightly and a pale, blue-eyed face peaked in. “Um, I’m Mrs. Cracroft’s new teaching assistant, but I see she isn’t here right now,” he said, his voice an odd combination of diffidence and, underlying his words, a hint of mischievousness. Despite pointing out the obvious, the red-haired student made no attempt to leave.

Crozier was intrigued. 

“Come in, you,” he gestured at the chair in front of his desk. “I’m Doctor Crozier from the History Department, but I’ll be covering for your supervisor for the time being. Please, take a seat. We have much to discuss.”

“So we have,” the new assistant confidently strolled in and plopped down on the offered chair without hesitation, as if that particular piece of furniture had been waiting to receive his rear end its entire life, and fulfilled its God given purpose by doing so. He offered his hand. “Cornelius Hickey.”

Crozier accepted it, pleasantly surprised by the strength of Hickey’s grip. “An unexpected introduction, but a damn fortunate one, nevertheless. I’m going to be straight with you, I, or I should say, we, are in quite a predicament. Did Ms. Cracroft tell you about the modelling today?”

“Oh, sure.”

Crozier paused, stared deeply into Hickey’s eyes.The assistant didn’t budge or show any other detectable sign of discomfort like most younger people did when first meeting the crusty history professor. Hickey was young, yet there was an aspect to him that he had found in no one else: the lank red hair in the dull afternoon light filtered through the window, the long nose and the lackadaisical half-smile under it, yes, there was something impish about Cornelius Hickey that unnerved the veteran academic. Crozier absentmindedly picked up an irregularly molded clay paperweight that he presumed was meant to resemble a human head, he awkwardly shifted its weight in his hands.

“Well, we don’t have a model…”

_ Oh my God,  _ he screamed inwardly,  _ am I really going to ask this guy to take his clothes off! He can wear his underwear, but still _ …It wasn’t that he had to have his newfound students draw a naked person, necessarily, but how else was he going to impress Sophia? Sure he could get away with having them draw pictures of his 'toy boats’, but that would only convince her that he was indeed the unimaginative curmudgeon most people took him to be. Never mind that he had been dry for years and was adored by both faculty and students alike in Chesney Hall, where he gave his lectures. No, to many he was just grumpy old Crozy who was always whining about imaginary problems. If he was ever going to wow the woman of his dreams and get that haughty Fitzjames’ head from out of his ass, he needed to show them that he too knew how to think outside the box. 

Still, some discretion was required. 

“So,” he said, deciding to change the subject, “what year are you in? I must confess, I don't recognize you, and So-Ms. Cracroft would've mentioned taking on a new TA…”

Hickey playfully cocked his head. “That doesn’t surprise me. You see, I’m in my third year, but I’ve taken most of my classes at the downtown campus.”

“A nice place, I’ve heard.”

“Very nice, but the farther I went up, the less art classes they had available. So I reached out to some people and Professor Cracroft recommended that I come here. I’ve only just arrived very recently, and anyway, it’s not like you hang around the Fine Arts building too often.”

Crozier nodded. It all made sense. And yet, it wasn’t really the lad he was worried about, far from it. He was worried about himself: a tenured professor asking a young student to take his clothes off seldom boded well for both parties. No matter how innocent the reasoning behind the request was, things could very easily spin out of control. 

“You sound like a dependable fellow, someone who’s not afraid to take the initiative. Do you have any idea how we can solve this...issue of a vacant model?”

_ The ball is in your court, Cornelius _ .

“I have an idea…” Cornelius shook his head ruefully. “I take it you don’t want to option your services?”

“I have no great desire, no…”

“Then it’s settled.” Cornelius happily rose to his feet. “However, I don’t think I’ll be remiss in asking for some, uh, extra credit?”

Crozier slapped the paperweight on the desk, shot up out of the chair, and clapped Hickey on the shoulder. “You’ll get some credit alright! And a letter of recommendation and a damn trophy if you ask for it...” Crozier’s heart flew out of the turgid depths of melancholy, soaring with his spirits to a heavenly realm where all his efforts were recognized and every inconvenience forgotten. He almost caught himself asking Hickey if he wanted a drink, and he hurriedly choked the words down.  

“What was that, doctor?” Hickey asked, coyly.

“I just wanted to say that,” Crozier stammered, “well, you may find that your work will be its own reward.”      


	2. Chapter 2

“I can’t wait for class!” John Irving told his friends as they bustled down the crowded hallway that was filled to the brim with chattering students hurrying to their respective destinations.

“You just want to check Diggle out,” replied Frederick Hornby, walking abreast of him.

Irving blushed at being teased by one of the most popular men on campus. It was true that he looked forward to applying his draughtsmanship skills in the artistic representation of a nude model, but not in the unwholesome manner that his classmate implied. Fortunately, no one else noticed his embarrassment, they were too busy talking the kind of nonsense young men everywhere were so fond of doing.

“I’ve always found it odd that Mr. Diggle is into this sort of thing,” observed Henry Vesconte, a tall, long-faced man with a reputation for awkwardness.“Serving the student body one hour, then serving  _ his own _ body the next—a peculiar, but daring combination, I must say.”

“I think it’s how he gets off,” added Charles Frederick des Voeux, a young freshman whose thin body was able to store an obscene amount of sarcasm and morbid interests. “You know, a fetish.”

“Or  _ kinks _ , according to internet vernacular,” elucidated Graham Gore. Everyone slowed down and listened. Gore was the oldest, and most worldly, of the group. Unlike most people, Gore had the distinction of actually possessing some factual knowledge of what he talked about. “Different strokes for different folks, as a wise man once said. “I’ve heard that before Diggle offered his services, it was actually a couple that posed for the class. Problem was, they’d get...excited all during the class—the students could tell by observing the man, you see—and the two models would rush out the room as soon as the class ended to do what you could imagine they might want to do. Dr. Franklin, dean of the Fine Arts Department, did not take to kindly-”

“We get the picture,” said Hodgson, a blonde, raw-boned man. “Now I’d think you better stop before you give poor John a heart attack.”

“I-I-I’m fine!” stammered a very red-faced Irving, desperately wishing to change the subject. “I’m just a bit nervous about having a substitute, that’s all. I heard Dr. Crozier was one of those, like, acerbic academic types.”

Gore laughed. “He can certainly be like that, but you’re wrong for the most part. He’s great. Kind of blunt, but never mean. Just don’t call him Crozy to his face; I saw him literally drag someone out of the room mid-lecture for calling him that.” 

They arrived at their destination before Irving could ask any more questions. He was faced by a single blue door: a gateway to a brand new experience.  _ Here we go _ , he thought,  _ the point of no return _ . He wasn’t anxious about what was to come, not really. It was more like a childish excitement. The syllabus stated clearly what he was getting himself into, and he had read it top to bottom without protest. With the exception of faith, humanity’s ability to create beautiful works of art out of nothing was its most commendable attribute. There was an ecstasy in the act of creation that he had failed to find anywhere else. Not even when he was saved, when his father’s friend baptized him by dunking him into a hot tub, did he experience the same joy he felt when watching one of his watercolors spring to life. He nodded his thanks to Gore, who held the door open, and passed the threshold. 

Two people were already inside: Edward Little—stolid and steadfast, such a handsome man, why he wore those piercings on his face was beyond Irving—and the everpresent, but quiet, Silna. Rows of chairs and easeles were spread across the linoleum floor, and hangers draped with fanciful garments and overfilled shelves choked with ‘borrowed’ stage props covered the walls. The whole place gave him the impression of a theatre’s backstage, not that of a classroom. But it really fit in with Ms. Cracroft’s colorful personality. She was non-tenured, an adjunct still pursuing a PhD, which he thought was a shame; she embodied the class, and the idea of someone else teaching was utterly implausible to him. He really hoped this substitute teacher wasn’t a portent of changes to come. Banishing these dismal thoughts with his growing anticipation, he sat down in the front row and removed a large piece of sketch paper from his portfolio case. The sketch would be made with charcoal sticks and pencils. He understood the reasoning behind this; charcoal drawings allowed the draughtsman to create sharp contrasts between light and dark, to imbue the subject with texture and subtle shading, and besides, it was a practical medium for sketching that required a certain amount of technical skill from the artist’s part. 

But it was not Irving’s favored method. He much preferred pastel sticks, or even better, watercolors! There were many snobbish persons in the department who looked down on his favorite medium. They claimed that it was childish and lacked the sophistication of acrylic or oil on canvas, but, if anything, their views spoke more of their own personal failings. Watercolor painting was a tricky business; one couldn’t prevent the colors from dripping and intermixing with one another, thus making it impossible to create clear, defined edges and angles that delineated space and shape. What many regarded as a curse, however, Irving saw as a blessing. He loved how  _ alive  _ it was, the bright, fluid hues mingling and swirling over the canvas, making, Vesconte said in a drastically different context, a ‘daring combination.’ As a wise man once said, ‘there were only happy accidents’ and this was especially true of watercolors. How many times had he, while painting a sunset, watch the layers of purples, pinks, reds, yellows, and blues drip onto each other, giving birth to a beautiful conflagration on the horizon that seemingly moved across the canvas, as if struggling to leap out into the world. He strived for such fantastic moments, and whenever his progress was impeded by laziness or lack of inspiration, he reminded himself of the satisfaction to come and the promise of that feeling pushed him ever onwards. He’d make do with charcoal, for now, but as soon as he was back in his flat it was time for his own pursuits. He was eager to finish preliminary work for his upcoming set portraying sights and scenes from a tour of the Alps he went on last year. 

You couldn’t do that with charcoal. Sure, it was good for landscapes, but it was so dirty, smudging the fingerprints and smearing the blank, excess sections of the paper with loose detritus that slid all around like sooty waves. Close a charcoal sketch inside a cramped case, carry it around, open it, and you’ll see the charcoal smeared all over the place, the original image irrevocably changed. At least watercolors, for all their shifting colors, actually dried if given enough time. 

He was sitting between Little and Silna. The latter, he knew, most likely felt the same way as he did about charcoal. She was fond of making vivid and evocative woodblock prints utilizing Inuit motifs, and making mere sketches for her, he imagined, must feel like childsplay. The sound of scraping chairlegs, shuffling footsteps, flapping papers, and pleasant whispers filled the air. The floor was raised a few inches in the back, and was draped with a crimson carpet; a single stool was placed in the center and, in a shaded corner, was a thin curtain where the model was, presumably, waiting. It was a fine little stage, but Irving was a bit annoyed by the obtrusive fire escape doors on the back wall; he’d have to try his best to ignore them.

A door opened, they all turned in their seats and saw Crozier barging in with his usual delicate stride. “Here I am by popular demand,” he announced, “Francis Crozier PhD. A doctor, but not the medical kind, so please avoid hurting yourselves on my watch.” He broke into braying laughter at what Irving guessed was a poor attempt at a joke, repeated it to himself a couple times, then stopped when it became clear no one else found it funny. “Um, alright, attendance.” He examined a clipboard. “Graham, Silna, Charles, John, George, Edward and Frederick.” He pressed it against his chest and let out a loud puff of air. “Wow! You all have different first names! Either it's a coincidence or someone decided to go for convenience this time around. Well, let's get down to brass tacks. We all know why we're here, so there's no use wasting time on directions.”

He went over to an old boombox placed on a table where Cracroft usually say behind and inserted a CD he found in one its cabinets. Presently, the notes of a nocturne by Chopin, intimate and intricate, wafted through air electrified by anticipation. No one dared to speak now. 

“This is Mozart, as per Ms. Cracroft's instructions,” said Crozier. “It makes babies smarter, so it should have some marginal effect on you yourselves, I imagine. Now, without further ado, it is my pleasure to present to you your object of observation, and, hopefully, eventual edification; I’m not in the habit of making empty vows, but, if nothing else, I promise you this:  _ you will be amazed _ .” Crozier swept an arm in the curtain’s direction and proclaimed: “You may come out now.”

The curtain parted and their was a collective gasp. Cornelius Hickey emerged and carelessly sauntered over the the stool. An azure robe, its shade only a few degrees lighter than the pair of playful eyes peeking out of the red curls on top, hung from his shoulders, and then fell from them to land around his pale ankles; he gingerly stepped out of the satin puddle and sat on the stool. 

Little’s jaw dropped. Irving ducked behind his easel and practically hid his face in his arms, just as the air stewardess had instructed him to do in the event of a crash; his face burned against them. The hairs rose on the back of his neck, detecting the startelement and unsease from those behind him.       

And something else entirely. If not edification, then idolization. Someone let out an appreciative sigh.

Silna alone didn’t seem to be that impressed. Abruptly, without any ceremony, she commenced a few tentative traces.

“I feel like I’ve seen this man before, deja vu and all that,” Des Voeux whispered distractedly. Nobody replied. Perhaps it was his annoyance at being ignored that made him lean over to Silna’s shoulder and conspiratorially whisper: “You don’t like it, do you? Not... _ crabby _ enough, is that it? I’d rather it was a woman, personally.”

She didn’t move, or even blink. “Your mother was too busy, Charley.”

Des Voeux eyes were blank, nothing immediately registering, then he winced and turned white, as if physically slapped, and he fell back in his seat, causing the table legs to loudly scrape against the floor.

“Quiet please,” Hickey called out from his lofty perch, “too much noise will give me performance anxiety.”

Polite laughter from the audience; with the notable exceptions of a flustered Irving and a still reeling Des Voeux. Snatches of nakedness played across the blank paper Irving kept his eyes trained on: the smooth shoulders speckled with light freckles, taught biceps, the bare chest and the soft stomach, rising and falling, his gaze sliding down the slope of the model’s small belly too...God, there wasn’t anything! No underwear, no flesh-colored tights. Nothing but a hint of more unruly auburn. He was angry, at Crozier for not warning him, and at himself. And there was shame, too, underlying every action, every thought.

He dimly registered the scratch and brush of charcoal against paper. He had to act. Not by excusing himself and leaving the room; he’d expose himself that way, making him vulnerable to scrutiny, and what would they find? What they've always suspected, John, what they may already know. This was torture, and yet there was no denying the allure that made his dilemma so painfully exquisite.              

He is just a man, a very sexy specimen, but a mere man nonetheless. He’d approach this just as the surgeon approaches a living, but unresponsive, body on the operating table or as how a coroner handles a cool corpse on a metal tray. He chanced a peek over the rim of his easel, his eyes quickly averting the model’s, and ducked down once more—but this time with the impression of Hickey sitting somewhat sideways on the stool, facing the left-hand side, a blank expression on his face and his muscles slack. Good, nothing very titillating about that, and he was hiding his crotch that way, so all was well. Taking a deep breath, counting down from ten, Irving took a good, long look at Hickey, and began sketching his face, which he judged to be the safest part of that provocative little body. But this effort proved to be much more difficult than initially thought. Hickey’s face was uniquely fox-like with his easy smile and auburn bristles, resembling no one he had ever seen before. He found himself staring at the model's vulpine visage for long stretches of time without moving his drawing hand, without dreaming of doing so, and whenever he caught himself doing this his face flushed and he inadvertently shrank behind his flimsy shield of soft paper and brittle wood. This can’t go on, John, he cautioned himself, but it kept going on, and the more it went on the more self-conscious he grew: he saw himself in his mind’s eye, a pristine still life of this very moment, a young man hunched over his work, half-cowering, half-drawing…

“Next position!” Crozier called from the back.

Irving started in his seat, garnering stifled tittering from Little and an amused look from Silna. But it wasn’t the substitute’s raised voice that startled him, but rather, it was the fact that he had scarcely finished his sketch of the model’s first position. He had nothing to show except a disembodied face grinning at his own lack of form; eyes, fuliginous as they were, shining with hidden complicity. The gaping omission in his twelve by eighteen inch sketchpad would be his admission of guilt. He had to do better next time...no, next sketch had to be flawless! For all his faults, slacking off in class wasn’t one of them. Ms. Cracroft will look through his creative output, and be so amazed by his successive drawings that she’ll forget the first one’s absence, and all that it might imply.

Irving turned to a fresh page and gazed upon his so-called object of observation.

Cornelius Hickey had assumed the posture of  _ Le Penseur _ in such a marvelous fashion that Irving had no choice but to stare in silent admiration. Irving wasn’t afraid; the model’s piercing blue eyes were staring down at his knees, the once expressive face now pinched in pensive contemplation, and the delightfully compact body hidden behind his right arm—it was crossed over his chest, elbow resting on his left knee, narrow chin resting on his long fingers, and yet, the promise of strength could be seen in this carefully maintained stillness, biceps taught beneath smooth skin…

But John Irving resisted the temptations of the flesh. He worked quickly, as if making up for his earlier tardiness, and was entranced by the work of his hands: the image was seemingly taking shape before him of its own volition. All his physical movements, right down the to involuntary beating of his heart, he felt in a most peculiar manner; they were all of a remote interest, curiously disconnected from himself, carried out from an unseen yet undeniable initiative. Just as he was transmuting the model’s body of flesh, blood, and bone into a new existence in the second dimension, so was the artist undergoing a series of changes that resulted in him not being quite what he was before. Irving was excited, and couldn’t help but wonder if his subject felt the same way, if they indeed existed in a kind of mutually tacit relationship. This too brought excitement, made all the more tangible by its tinge of unseemliness; he grew uncomfortably aware of the dark stains on his naked palms and fingers.

All that remained were the eyes, and this was where he thoroughly damned the medium he was forced to work with. It wasn’t the anatomical details that unnerved him, rather, it was the question of pathos. Dirty carbon residue couldn’t hope to convey the clarity, the incisiveness, of those blue eyes, nor could it reflect the alluring promise of what lay behind. Lost to the torrid passion swelling in his breast like a sucking wound, and with the effortless deliberateness of a somnambule did he lift his own to those of his most revered subject, and was immediately relieved to see that Hickey was looking downwards, penetrating gaze averted, and Irving consoled himself with the fact that, even though deprived of his accustomed watercolors, he’d still be able to work safe in the knowledge that this would be a one-sided relationship. The viewer and his object, as timeless a relationship as that between predator and prey, but Irving was  haunted by one nagging fear: who, in this particular moment, was who? He did his best to banish such thoughts; he would not allow himself to work with such distractions.

And there were none. Not when when Irving took in every facet of his subject’s face, committed them to memory, and vaguely felt his hand methodically moving across the sketch paper, putting the final touches on what he knew would be the standout work from this session. His hand aching, his work done for the time being, he placed the charcoal stick, now little more than a useless stub pinched between black-capped thumb and index fingers, down, and drank in a last, lingering look of his breathing idol, and in this fleeting moment of crystal clarity, of timelessness, Cornelius Hickey looked out from under his crimson brows and recognized his diffident admirer; his pupils dilated, twin black pools expanding, absorbing all light, all reasoning, all sense of self. John Irving swam in those eyes, spiralling farther and farther down in a grandiose descent, to depths he couldn’t hope to extricate himself from and whose sunken recesses held a hidden, frightening, allure. He gasped, overwhelmed by the power of this unspoken exchange.

“I don’t know about you guys, but I’m hungry as hell,” Vesconte complained to no one in particular.

“Oh yes,” Irving grated, “I’m hungry.”

“Next, and…” Crozier frowned and inspect the notes Cracroft had left form him. “Ultimate position? That’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it? Oh well, good luck, I guess. I’d give you A’s for effort but I don’t know how So-your instructor does things.” He was sitting on the usual instructor’s desk, putting on a pair of reading glasses and flipping through the rest of the loose-leaf papers. “But she says I don’t let you out early? You’ve got projects to work ahead on, is that correct? I hope none of you have urgent plans.”

“Excuse me, doctor, but Ms. Cracroft lets us eat in class,” Vesconte said from the row immediately behind Irving, “mind if I have a snack?”

_ Know I’m having one _ , thought Irving. A shameful feast for the eyes. He was staring out from the corner of his sketch pad, glimpsing a tantalizing sliver of ribbed torso. God! But he couldn’t hide it, nor resist, not anymore. With the slightest tilt of his head, the damned model had opened all the mold-draped floodgates within Irving, releasing uncontrollable torrents of turgid lust that drowned all that stood in its way. But how? Irving had sworn himself to a vow of abstinence, and he had always been thankful, for he had found a life of celibacy to be surprisingly easy. But within seconds, when he least expected it, it was all crashing down in grand fashion—a crystal palace felled by the tiniest crack. 

“Of course, I don’t mind. Just don’t leave any fu-any crumbs,” Crozier replied off-handedly, lazily scrolling through his phone He was leaning heavily back and had propped his feet on the desk. A decoratively glazed coffee cup filled with pencils was in danger of being knocked over. “Just leave yourself enough time to complete your work.”

“Thank you, sir.”

_ Can I finish my work _ , thought Irving. An intoxicating pall had settled over him; it was all he could do to just sit in one place, to maintain the guise of careless confidence in his abilities. He watched, helplessly, as Hickey took on a recreation of  _ The Birth of Venus _ by Botticelli: right hand over his toned chest, left hovering over his crotch, and Irving with his legs crossed, wondering if every force on this world, the pulsing  _ anima mundi _ , had turned against him. A near blasphemous thought, one that challenged the infallibility and perfection of His plan, but why such a blatantly suggestive posture? As playful as she was, he had a hard time imagining Ms. Cracroft envisioning something so blatantly erotic...That is, if he wasn’t the only one who saw the posture this way. He scarcely suppressed a shudder.

In spite of all this, however, he never dreamed of simply leaving.

Ostentatiously bending down to his artist’s tools in what was meant to impress Hickey just as much as himself, Irving endeavored to make it through this final hurtle. This was a game of attrition now: all Irving had to do was endure, who gave a damn about how his work looked? All that mattered was him maintaining his composure in the face of all his colleagues who were so blissfully unaware of the conflict taking place right in their midst. The problem wasn’t physical action so much as it was motivating himself to do something, to defy Hickey who wouldn’t stop staring at him now. No matter what part of his body he looked, Hickey’s cursed intelligence was there, that damned recognition, lying in wait for him, just for him. He worked not with the single unified image of his model, but with fragments gathered from haphazard glimpses and sideways glances, and his resulting sketch turned out to be a rather abstract piece. Yes, that’s what he would pass it off as. It was done. He slumped back, physically and emotionally exhausted. 

But he found no relief. Visions of Hickey swam around Irving, beguiling him, speculations as to the few things that he did not see now maddening him more than all the exposed skin ever did. They had to know—his peers, the substitute teacher, and especially his model—had to know about the dreadful effect this all had on him. He chanced a look over his shoulder, and saw Vesconte happily devouring a banana; Irving was appalled and hurriedly looked away, only to be immediately confronted by the blurry and vague, but undeniable shape of Hickey. Within the arbitrary angles and undefined curves, his taunter’s face was still visible.

Crozier yawned. “Well, that’s it then. Good job everybody.”

Irving sighed and made ready to pack his things.

“But I would be remiss in my duties if I just turned you loose. We’ve still got some time left, and that is one resource an artist cannot afford to waste...at least that’s what your instructor told me,” Crozier said, still lounging around on another teacher’s chair and making no effort to do much of anything. “I’m sure you’ve got other assignments you can be working on. And you,” he addressed Hickey who still held his pose, “I’m very happy with you. You can get dressed now, unless you’re actually enjoying yourself up there.”

Hickey ignored the sarcasm in those words and smiled. “Actually, yes, I am enjoying myself. If you don’t mind, I’d like to pose again, but this time I’ll do a sort of...solo  _ tableau vivant _ of my own choice.”

“A surprise,” Vesconte said to himself around a spoonful of cereal. The madman had actually gotten out a bowl of the stuff and was contentedly eating it dry. “Very good.” 

“If you want to, be my guest. Makes my job a lot easier.” Crozier leaned so far back in his chair that it looked like he was going to fall over, and let out another very impressive yawn. “This music is going to make me pass out," he groaned, straightening up, "since you should all be geniuses by now, we can actually listen to something that gets our blood pumping." He stood up and moved to the sound system. "And now," he announced in a faux-pompous tone, "you will be privileged to hear a selection from my personal collection." He pinched an auxiliary cord and plugged it into his phone. Chopin was replaced by music much less refined, but just as, if not more, impactful.

And John Irving couldn’t help but think about pumping something else. There were those, he knew, who were tone-deaf,  _ amusia _ , it was called, but whatever he had was the exact opposite. Eccentricities in his neural wiring, a derangement of his synapses, had resulted in a novel condition where music, especially low and deep tunes, aroused him; he had learned this the hard way at the cusp of manhood, quite literally, and now the sensation was coming at full force. This grimy bastard music flooded the room, lapping at the walls and leaking through the cracks, and he had no choice but to drink and transform. Every bass note stripped away a section of his shell, his mask, laying bear what he truly was: a quivering conglomeration of sensitive nerve endings and naked desire. It would be easy to say that he was in a state of intoxication, but what kind of drunk was ever able to complain of heightened senses? This was not mundane drunkenness; it was the raw ecstasy that had struck Saint Teresa’s breast. He reveled in Hickey’s stench, a cheap aftershave more aromatic than the most expensive perfume, and he counted every miniscule strand of red hair on his white body, from feet to chin. And he imagined his hands gliding up his shanks, hips and chest, to cup his face…

“You may go ahead, Mr. Hickey” Crozier called out, and the whole class waited with bated breath.

Wallowing in the limelight, relishing everyone’s undivided attention, he preened himself, straightening up to his full height and lifting his arms, crossing his wrists and holding them firmly together, as if they were binded by invisible thongs, and Hickey’s face was upturned to the fluorescent lights, a wan, resigned expression on his face, and he remained standing on the very tips of his toes. It was a pose Irving found to be very familiar, and the sound of Hodgson’s breath hitching in his breath all but confirmed it, but whatever his friend was feeling, there was no way they even remotely correlated with what he now felt. Every deliberately made gesture had assiduously served to stroke his crackling arousal until it could no longer be contained.  _ My cup runneth over _ . Fear and shyness turned to an incandescent rage. How dare this stranger, this nobody, this pervert, appropriate the death throes of a martyr for his own depraved means, defacing holiness until it resembled but a horrid mockery of it. He rose, choking on uncharacteristic imprecations and cramped with bile. No one noticed. Des Voeux was reading some pulpy paperback (he had a special fondness for those things, despite his pretentious posturings) about inbred cannibals in Canada, and Vesconte was devouring an entire loaf of bread. Everyone else was working away, most likely not recognizing the significance of what they were seeing. He staggered forwards, nearly tripping over the raised edge of the impromptu stage, Hickey watching him all the while, expectantly. Someone complained about Irving being in the way, he ignored them. He smelled him, felt the warmth radiating of Hickey’s goosebumped flesh, and Irving raised his hands with the loose idea that he would strike the model down, abrupt action compensating for his loss of words, but all he managed to do was take another step forwards; they were almost touching now. A scrape of table legs and the stomp of feet (Crozier?) in the back, accompanied by a few gasps. He ignored them, reaching out for Hickey and pulling him close. He was warm to the touch—a stray ember freshly escaped from the hearth, having fallen within his grasp, burning his palms. When their lips met, he imagined a hot coal pressed to his own.         

And he offered himself up to the flames.

***

"What is this?" asked De Voeux in disbelief.

"True love," answered Hornby solemnly, "the purest kind that can only exist between two extraordinary souls. Like the one that existed between Patroclus and Achilles. Harry Peglar told me all about it."

"So that's how you justify fucking a professor these days?"

But no more words escaped from Des Voeux's lips, nor from anyone else's. They were all entranced by what was transpiring before them. (Except for Silna, who found the display to be rather grotesque—strongly resembling two pale, fuzzy caterpillars clumsily smushing their faces together after bumping into one another in some dark, subterranean tunnel). And it was not without considerable annoyance did they transfer their attention to an intruder who had slipped in and announced his unexpected arrival by loudly clearing his throat. 

“And who’re you supposed to be?” Crozier peremptorily demanded. “This is a private session.”

The interloper assumed a pained countenance. “Your teaching assistant,” he said, “I was going to apologize for being late.”

Crozier looked at Hickey, who still maintained his pose even while Irving was all over him, and back at the assistant, who, although being clean shaven, was a dead ringer for the model up on stage. The historian in Crozier saw the connection, but the man, the foolish man who already knew the answer, was compelled to ask: “What is your name?”

The self-identified assistant, feeling the burden of the classes’ curiosity, and belatedly realizing what he had stumbled into, hesitated. He stepped backwards, stopped near the door, and seemed to calculate his options. At length, he sighed, and answered for all to hear: “Cornelius Hickey.”

Jaws dropped; Vesconte choked and gagged on his food; Irving came to his senses and hastily disentangled himself from Hickey who was shirking away. 

“Well, fuck me,” said Crozier. 

Faint voices from beyond the threshold:       

“As you can see, recent renovations have exceeded all expectations. We only house the finest buildings on this campus. Why, it’s almost as nice as the International Hall.”

“I’m afraid I must disagree with that statement, James,” came a kindly voice. 

“Sorry, I beg your pardon, doctor...or is ‘dean’ a more appropriate title?”

Laughter, generous and genuine. “You’re really are too much, James. I told you a million times, call me John.”

“Now wait a minute, I thought my name was John?” said an old man. 

“Hold on, isn’t that your sons’ name?”

“Hm, yes. Looks like good Johns are all too easy to come by these days.”

More laughter. 

“Now, now,” broke in James. “Let’s not have too much fun. Imagine if some students found us. Let’s duck into your niece's classroom, John, er, younger John, and see how our substitute is doing. And that way we can show Mr. Barrows one of the classrooms.”

“A most sensible course of action, James. Lead the way.”

“By all means. I’ll get the door for you.”

“No!” Crozier yelled and rushed to the entrance. “Don’t open that door!” 

“Looks like the good doctor is coming to greet us,” Fitzjames said and opened the door. “Hello, Francis. Lookin’ a bit peaked out, aren’t you? Or shall I say piqued? Is your new model that  _ stimulating _ ?”

“James, for the love of God, get them outta here.”

“Come, come, Francis,” said Franklin, dean of the College of Arts, from over Fitzjames’ shoulder. “We aren’t prudes. Move aside, please.” 

“John...sir…”

“Out of the way, Francis. We are escorting a president.” Fitzjames shooed away a white-faced Crozier and made room for the rest of his party to come in. “Cozy room, isn’t it, Dr. Crozier? Furthermore... _ what the hell?! _ ”

Fitzjames saw Hickey the Assistant, then saw Hickey the Model, and stood, slack jawed, as President Barrows and Dean Franklin filed in. 

Franklin froze. “Good God, man,” he gasped, “good God.”

“So I had to find a new model, so what?” Crozier asked angrily.  

“Francis,” Fitzjames said, all out of breath and exasperated, “that isn’t a student. That’s the janitor...that’s the negligent bastard who left a bucket for Diggle to trip on.” 

“Wrong!” Hickey cried out triumphantly and pranced out from the corner, stood on stage, forefront and center, and bared everything. “I left the bucket out on purpose. I was counting on Diggle catching his foot in that thing! I planned everything out, nothing was left to chance, I knew you’d three would show up sooner or later. I confess, I got worried when I got through all the poses ahead of time, but I managed to hang on for a few more precious seconds. I wasn’t posing; I was waiting.” 

“What...what did you say?” asked Irving, his head poking out from under the curtain Hickey had earlier emerged from. “What did you do?”

“I fucked him over, just like this whole school fucked me over,” Hickey sneered, whatever attraction he may’ve showed to the student now vanished, replaced by an overwhelming aura of contempt, spite, and pure vitriol.” He turned and pointed over the heads of his frantic audience, right at Barrows. “Your son and I was involved in...what do you types call it? A scandal, and I got expelled while your stupid bastard of a son got away with everything!”                                    

“I...I...I...I…” Barrows swayed like a metronome, one wrinkly and liver-spotted hand clutching his chest.   

The finger swerved to Fitzjames. “And I know how that happened. What did he give you in return, doctor? A tenureship? Or did he promise you a seat on his board of advisors? Either way, you made out handsomely, did you?” He dropped the finger and raised both arms in a gesture that embraced the entire room. “But I’ll will tell you what I know, and I suspect there’ll be quite a few changes in management when I’m through.”

“That’s enough out of you! I’m calling security. I don’t know what this madman is talking about. Everyone just ignore him.” Fitzjames patted the still trembling Barrows on the shoulder. “So sorry about this, but I’ll clean it up, don’t you worry.”  

_ Not the campus police!  _ Irving screamed inwardly. Everything had changed during this abrupt confrontation, everything except for his love. He leaped out from his hiding spot and tackled Hickey to the floor before he could make any more accusations. They rolled around, back and forth, knocking over props and tearing up sections of the carpet in front of the horrified onlookers. Hickey snarled and hissed like a feral animal and thrashed about, trying to loosen Irving's grip and squirm free, but Irving was no limp-wristed city boy: he had grown up roaming the crisp, green countryside around his grandfather’s estate and had spent much of his adult life hiking and climbing all around the world, scaling cliffs many of his peers couldn’t even pronounce the names of, and he held onto Hickey with an unassailable grip that was capable of defying gravity itself. Hickey spasmed and shrieked in frustration, and when that animalistic show failed to garner any reaction, he resorted to shouting vile oaths at the top of his lungs:

“Bugger Barrows! Bugger the Dean! Bugger this whole goddamn university! Bugger all of you and…” Hickey seemed momentarily lost for words. “And bugger the Pope!”

“No...not the Pope…” sobbed Hodgson, who was very upset about seeing his best friend wrestle around with a deranged naked man and hearing all of these shocking revelations about men he had once admired.  

Hearing his friend’s poignant woes, Irving tried to conceive of a way to silence, possibly permanently, Hickey’s virulent polemic, but all his limbs were tied up in his, and it took every ounce of effort to restrain Hickey from doing anything else that might hurt him, so Irving resorted to the ultimate measure. Irving hugged Hickey to his chest and choked down the small man’s bitterness with his lips. It wasn’t a pleasant affair: their mouths were welded together, clamped teeth grinded and clacked against each other, they were still locked in a silent fight for dominance, and there was nothing delicate or careful about how Hickey got his thigh between Irving’s legs and started sawing it back and forth, sending hot bolts of pleasure up Irving's guts.                   

“I feel far from good!” Vesconte told absolutely no one, not that anyone would’ve wanted to hear him out in the first place: they were all watching with rapt attention, his peers, giving the impression of a passerby craning their neck to better see a car wreck over a riot of strobing emergency lights or an irreverent wanderer rubbing a gravestone of a controversial figure—like a notorious prostitute or politician, maybe. There were shades of  _ schadenfreude _ , without a doubt, but there was more outright bafflement than pleasure.      

On the opposite side of the spectrum, however, President John Barrows was feeling  _ very  _ good. His concern had gone from the student body to a new, more singular one. Ever since the commencement of the struggle, he had been mesmerized by Hickey's sinuous body, contorting and sliding as it did, against the grip of another, more conventionally handsome man. A marvelous combination, he thought, as he watched Hickey's pert little rump periodically rise in the air whenever he got the upper hand. Barrows was a rich and powerful man, with one wave of a gnarled hand he was able to summon all of life's luxuries, yet in this moment all he craved for was Cornelius Hickey's pendulous family jewels, like a pair of wrinkly red rubies swinging back and forth, more valuable to him than anything in Mrs. Barrow's glittering jewelry collection (And belonging to someone much more bearable to be around too). The idea that, in a way, his flesh and blood had already handled these succulent specimens sent his already precariously positioned body and soul over the edge. The old man was struck by an agonized ecstasy, but it was different from Irving’s due to the fact that it was actually a catastrophic cardiac arrest and under no circumstance is that ever a good thing. The spirit was willing but the flesh was much too weak.  

Still clutching his left breast, President John Barrows of the university of his namesake fell down and was received by indifferent linoleum.

“Uh-oh!” shouted Fitzjames, and crouched near Barrows in order to resuscitate the man, and his own career, for that matter. “Stay calm everyone!”

They did not listen. Des Voeux was the first to break, getting up and making a run for it, but in his haste to escape he missed the errant banana peal someone had carelessly tossed away and he slipped, falling head over heels, his face slamming against the floor and the air coming alive with a nauseating crunch. The thin man, wetly whimpering, peeled his face off the ground and his lower face was awash with blood pouring out his broken nose. He grappled for Hornby’s ankle, not knowing that he was a very squeamish person, a lifelong sufferer of  haemophobia, and Des Voeux only managed a feeble cry of disbelief when Hornby moaned and slipped out of his chair, landing right on top of the smaller, more lightweight young man. Silna, evidently disgusted by the chaos swirling all around her, quietly got up to leave. 

“Silna!” Des Voeux gasped from underneath the unconscious Hornby. “Help...me…”

Silna stepped over him without a word and slipped out the classroom. “I’ll grab a doc,” she said and was gone, her footsteps retreating down the hallway.

This did little to dispel the general disorder in the room.

“You are the worst kind of substitute art teacher, Francis!” Franklin hollered in Crozier's face over the prone form of Barrows. 

“It would seem that I may have committed a grave act of hubris,” Crozier admitted, his voice and posture stiff. Still not quite believing in what was happening.

“And soon to be the worst kind of professor as well,” Fitzjames said hotly, rising from Barrows who was beginning to show some tell-tale signs of life. “Good God, man! What were you thinking? Making a student do this sort of thing? You should’ve done the modeling yourself if impressing Sophia was so damn important to you!”

At the mention of her name, Crozier’s hand came alive, curling up into a fist and striking Fitzjames square on the jaw. The International Relations professor staggered back and knocked into Little, who had been threading his way through the maze of chairs and easels in a desperate effort to escape, his pierced face rattling as it swung back and forth, looking for a way out that would never appear. The two of them went down in a mighty crash, snapping easels and scattering squealing chairs. Coincidentally, they fell near the fallen forms of Hornby and Des Voeux—neither of them spoke, neither of them moved, as Little and Fitzjames made an even bigger mess as they tried to untangle themselves. Vesconte nervously munched on a square of dried ramen and lifted his legs up so that Hickey II or whoever he was could hide underneath him. Hodgson was hugging his sketchpad to his chest, his soul lifevest in a veritable maelstrom. Gore had simply vanished.         

None of them seemed appreciative of the fact that their class,  _ Introduction to Human Anatomy as an Art Form _ , was not only notable for possessing such a convoluted name, but for also having gained the more dubious distinction of being the first class to possess a body count.

“This is a disaster!’ declared Franklin, quite needlessly. “A bloody disaster!”  

As if to cement the dean’s sentiment, Hickey drew back his knee and mercilessly slammed it into Irving’s groin. Pleasure turned to pain, and Irving moaned and pushed himself away. Hickey enthusiastically jumped up onto the balls of his feet and surveyed his handiwork. His revenge had been as unexpected as it was brutal, no one was spared, and it was unlikely that anyone would ever forget the decisive blow dealt upon them. Especially not Barrows, he thought, and smiled, especially not him. But now was not the time to bask in success. He stepped over his mewling plaything, snatched up his clothes behind the curtain, and made his way to the fire escape in the back. Once that was triggered, this campus would be in such a state of confusion that it would be easy for him to slip away unnoticed. He pirouetted and gave the class a deep bow, then spun back around and hurled himself through the dull grey doors, leaving behind desolation and despair, lingering aches and pains, heartbreak and disappointment. A disaster, Franklin echoed across the ruins, a disaster. 

John Irving got up on trembling hands and knees, like a newborn calf, his infirmity laid bare by the sunlight spilling in through the swinging metal doors. An alarm was ringing, intruding upon his burgeoning faculties, growing louder. He ignored it, just as he did everything else, an easy feat when he still had Hickey on the mind. Why had that man tempted him so? What had the model seen in the artist? The former was trying to tell him something, but what? And even if he didn’t hold any warm feelings towards him, as the artist was beginning to suspect, Irving had to be sure, and the only way to achieve this was through a direct confrontation on equal footing. Hodgson helped him up, asking him all sorts of nonsense, and Irving pushed him away with a sluggish shove. The sun beckoned; he smelled the fresh grass and clean air outside. Hodgson’s pleading voice was in his ear, coming from someplace far away. Irving shrugged him off again, limping for the fire escape, in Hickey’s direction.           

“John,” Hodgson cried after his friend, “come back! Don’t go out there!”

John Irving did not listen. 

But his friend’s voice still called after him, beckoning across a gulf that would never be bridged again. 


	3. Chapter 3

“John,” the voice was very distant, yet strengthened with insistence. “Hey John, wake up, John...come on, man...Get your ass up now!” 

His eyelids fluttered, there was a debilitating moment of weightlessness, then, at last, his eyes opened and he saw that he was in some kind of auditorium, sitting on a pew made of pale green upholstery and white, polished wood; George Hodgson, a bemused expression on his otherwise good-humored face, sat next to him. There were others, staid and unremarkable types in Sunday clothes, standing up and filing out in between the rows of long benches. The few that awkwardly shuffled past them presented Irving with a succession of none too subtle glances, and he couldn’t say that any of them were remotely welcoming. Fragments of his lurid dream floated up from the depths along with the dread realization that he had irreverently, blasphemously, experienced it within the hallowed sanctuary of a church!    

Of that he had no doubt. High walls rose on either side, pale blue and slightly concave, the medley of padding feet and closing doors echoing across their length. They ran down the worship area, growing shorter and narrower, until they reached their joint terminus: a raised marble platform where a pinch-faced priest closed a leatherbound missal shut and stepped off the pulpit; he wore an emerald green vestment interlaced with gold thread and trimmed in crimson, and above it, a maddeningly serene expression. The clergyman ducked into the sacristy and disappeared from Irving's sight. A new revelation dawned on him. 

Hodgson confirmed it. “I thought inviting you to step inside a Catholic church would end in one of us getting struck by lightning, but not this,” he said, smiling, obviously amused by Irving's confusion. “I take it you’re not interested in next week's service?”

“Oh no, I mean, yes! I'd be interested,” Irving started. “I don't know how this happened. I've never fallen asleep during a sermon before, and I wouldn't have during this one.” But what had this one been about? All that came to him were the phantom sensations of warm flesh gliding over warm flesh, of eyes, blue and dark as the contents of an Aqua Velva bottle... 

“There's a first time for everything, I suppose,” said Hodgson, not sounding very convinced.

“I'm not feeling well, to tell you the truth.”  _ A lie, that's two strikes, John.  _ “I haven't been all day.”

“Really? Why didn't you say anything? It's not like you’ll hurt my feelings by saying no.”

“I didn't think it was a big deal...until now. I must have a fever coming on,” Irving explained. “I need to catch my breath. You go ahead, I'll catch up with you.”

“Alright then,” Hodgson said, standing up. “Just don't stay in here for too long. They might lock you in.” He followed a group of departing parishioners to a nearby exit. 

As quickly as he had been rudely tossed onto this unfamiliar stage, the entire congregation left him behind, leaving him in the company of mute stained glass and extinguished candles. Afterimages of his fervent fantasy still dazzled him, and his surroundings appeared more illusory than the many pseudo-memories parading past his mind's eye. Memories of an imaginary calamity. But how was a memory of a dream any more concrete, any more tangible, any more  _ authentic  _ than that of something that really did happen. Both kinds dwelled in a person's head, after all. So who's to say? Irving certainly wasn't one in this moment, and perhaps, not ever. 

The lights dimmed; the pews, platform, pulpit, and candles reposed on a pooling foundation of shadow. Had it all really been a dream? He felt somewhat ashamed of being so unsure. The fact that he could recall what transpired within his own skull so clearly, so  _ vividly _ , set it apart from all the other dreams he had in the past. He remembered being everywhere at once, in the heads of others besides himself, and sometimes he watched while other times he acted; it was like taking part in a play where he was equal parts performer and participator, actor and unseen voyeur. The dream or vision or whatever the hell it was seemed to drag on forever, and he lived it vicariously while sitting where he was now...God forbid, had he gotten horny during homily? 

At that thought, he couldn't bear to be in the place any longer. He shifted in his seat, ready to stand up, when he felt it—he must’ve been sitting on it this whole time. It was his familiar sketchbook, its binding warm to the touch, having soaked up his body heat for who knew how long. Without hesitation, he opened it and flipped past the familiar pages, and found him near the end: the man who had called himself Cornelius Hickey. Smudges marred the off-white background, the angles were fuzzy and indistinct, the corpus all grey and black, but that was to be expected of charcoal rubbed between the pages of a closed sketchbook. It was a funny thing; the sketch didn’t surprise him, despite his not being able to recall when he made it. 

The smell of aftershave...or was it the cloying incense? He heard soft footsteps, naked soles against carpet, perhaps, and he whirled around to see nothing. Through the windows in the back of the sanctuary, he saw the lights in the reception hall turn off; he was truly alone, but he didn’t feel any sense of isolation. 

He ran his fingers along the curve of a black cheek, smearing charcoal across the paper and dyeing the tips of his digits, his own flesh, the same color of his creation.          

The quiet sanctity of the place was disrupted by his own thoughts.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This all took me a lot longer than initially thought, but you can't rush quality!
> 
> But, really, I am getting tired of this pompous style I've been using so often lately. I think making another religious allusion will make me physically sick. I will probably finish The Matchmaker in a grandiose way like this and then I'll take a break to do non-Terror things and adopt a more hardboiled style. Much less verbose but still vivid and engaging, still having the grime and dirt and outlandishness but much more explicit, without the fine veneer. That way I can actually finish things in a decent amount of time. 
> 
> Btw, I found this neat entry in the Naval Dictionary about Henry Foster Collins' dad who was named...Henry Collins. Henry Collins Junior was his eldest son out of two others but it isn't mentioned what they did. Also had three daughters. The man himself had a very eventful career:
> 
> https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/A_Naval_Biographical_Dictionary/Collins,_Henry

**Author's Note:**

> I was originally going to post the entirety of this story all at once as soon I as was finished. However, I felt so bad about not doing anything for the Terror tag recently or coming through on any of the other things I've been working that I decided to post this to let everyone know I'm still around. I'm working on the final chapter for the Matchmaker right now and I hope to be done with it soon. This year didn't get off to a good start for me, and I've been busy, and I've been pursuing other projects - I've been very distracted lately. 
> 
> Anyway, I've got the ending for this piece done and completed (a lot of people probably won't like it at all) and I'm working on the second part, and I promise this will be done soon. When I get done with everything, I might jump ship for a little while. But that doesn't mean I'm going to stop here. I have in mind two historically CANON fan fics - Kiss me Franky (one last time) (Young!Franklin x Horatio Nelson) and The Mate and the Emperor where young Crozier goes to St. Helena and learns from a very special man that size isn't everything...it's the size of one's heart that matters. I take shipping very seriously, as you can see. I also want to do Mariner's Cove AU where Hickey gives Gibson a whole bunch of rats for Valentine's Day and ends up terrorizing the town. 
> 
> Btw, I know there's comments but they make me so anxious that I can hardly look at them. Thanks for them anyway.


End file.
